My Christmas Traditions

My list of Christmas traditions:

Putting up outdoor lights the day after Thanksgiving weather permitting

Putting up lighted greenery sway on balcony railing, also the day after Thanksgiving

Making Christmas cookies starting with Oatmeal Strips (not a traditional Christmas cookie but very rich and our personal favorite that is only made at Christmas time)

Putting up miscellaneous Christmas decorations, including the wooden scrollwork pieces from Barry's brother, Brad

Making more Christmas cookies
Taping Christmas cards up on the wall as we receive them

Making Mother's Chex Mix

Singing Christmas carols at church

Making fruitcake with dried cherries, dried cranberries and golden raisins

Starting to figure out a gift list (my best ideas come late)

Thinking about sending Christmas cards and Christmas e-cards

Getting a tree, usually by my birthday

Putting the lights on the tree (Barry)

Putting the ornaments on the tree, unbreakable ones on the lower half and more fragile ones at the top because of young grandkids and cats (Candy and Carrie)

Finalizing gift list and ordering, shopping and sometimes making

Making more Christmas cookies

Sending packages to Florida and Colorado, usually right at the deadline

Brother's dinner with Barry's brothers and wives

Christmas Eve or Christmas day with Ben, Sarah and kids

Opening stocking gifts Christmas morning

Eating breakfast

Reading the Christmas story as a family

Opening gifts to each other

A quiet Christmas evening

And two silly traditions that are all my own:

Listening to “Grandma Got Run Over by A Reindeer” all the way through just once during the season

Watching “The Preacher's Wife”

And one very dear to my heart tradition:

On Christmas Eve morning I listen to a broadcast of the “Festival of Nine Lessons and Carols from the chapel of King's College, Cambridge. The nine lessons come from Genesis, Isaiah, Luke, Matthew and John presenting the arc of the gospel story from the fall of man to the coming of the Messiah. Each lesson is accompanied by two carols sung by the choir and at times the congregation. The service always begins with “Once in Royal David's City” as the choir processes into the service. The first verse is sung acapella by one boy. All the boys in the choir practice for that solo with the final selection being made just before the processional begins. It is thrilling to listen live, to hear that lone voice begin singing, to hear the Scriptures being read, ending with the passage from John 1:1-14, “In the beginning was the WORD, and the WORD was with God and the WORD was God. Praise be to God.

Two Very Special Christmas Trees

I do not have a lot of specific memories of Christmases growing up.  I do remember Christmas as being a special family time with a tree and presents and the Christmas story from the Bible and sometimes special church events.  But two Christmases—or two Christmas trees to be more exact—spring to mind immediately when asked for a Christmas memory. 

After we moved from Long Beach to Hesperia when I was in fourth grade, my dad drove 100 miles to work as jobs were scarce in the high desert.  The only major employers were the Kaiser-Permanente cement plant in Lucerne Valley and George Air Force Base in Adelanto which provided some civilian jobs.  The region was sparsely populated and many were retirees.  But over time the drive to the better paying job “down below”, over Cajon Pass into the LA Basin, took its toll and was not worth the paycheck.  And so began his 5 year quest for a career in the high desert community which culminated in his becoming a firefighter and paramedic with the Hesperia Fire Department.  Those five years were comprised of a series of short term jobs, hard work and struggles to make ends meet.   

Of those five years, two Christmases stand out.  There was money to purchase at least one gift for each of us, but no money for a Christmas tree.  The first Christmas, out of desperation, very late on Christmas Eve, after all the stores and gas stations had closed, my mom picked up one of the leftover trees that would be thrown out when business resumed the day after Christmas, brought it home and decorated it.  Better than a Charlie Brown tree, but not a beautiful tree, to us it was wonderful.  The second unusual Christmas tree was also the result of a too limited budget.  A row of very tall cypress formed a windbreak at the back of our yard.  Their column a Christmas tree shape and when decorated was pretty impressive and to us wonderful.

ular shape did not suggest much in the way of a Christmas tree, but after my mom and dad cut one down, trimmed off the bottom to fit the ceiling height, and interspersed some of the trimmed branches in the lower half, it took on

As a parent (and grandparent) now myself, looking back, the sacrifices my parents made to provide not just needs, but also special things amazes me.  Their love for us and their hard work, even when the urge to tune out must have been overwhelming, made our lives special.  And our Christmases, whether adorned with much or little were very special.    

A Reflection on Doughnuts

Doughnuts have been used as a coping mechanism probably as long as they have been in existence.  I, too, use doughnuts as a coping mechanism when faced with situations which threaten to undo me, to dissolve my usually calm demeanor into a puddle of tears whether from sadness or joy, from feeling overwhelmed or even just sentimental.  However, my use of doughnuts is quite unconventional.  Here is how it all began…

In early 1997, my husband, Barry, and I bought a convenience store.  It was situated way out in the county and owned by an elderly couple who wished to retire.  The premises were as careworn as the owners and in desperate need of updating.  The asking price was a bargain even with the need for new gas pumps, a canopy over the pumps, a renovation of the front of the building and a fresh coat of paint on walls and concrete floor.  A company was contracted to replace the gas pumps and install the canopy.  Family, friends and newly hired employees did the grunt work of refurbishing and painting.  Barry’s connections to the local restaurant community through his HVAC/refrigeration company guaranteed access to good used equipment which he would install himself.  A three year stint as a deli manager while in his 20’s gave him the know-how to stock and manage the sub and sandwich part of the store.  Add the groceries, the VHS movie rentals and an ATM machine and we were set.  Oh yes, don’t forget the doughnuts—a whole case full every morning, Monday through Saturday.

We stocked a very good doughnut product that came in pre-fried and frozen.  The doughnut “maker” would arrive between 4:15 and 4:30am to be ready for the 5am store open.  Saturday opening was an hour later and we were closed on Sundays.  Specific numbers of doughnuts would have been taken from the walk in freezer and placed on trays in the walk in cooler the night before.  The first order of business in the morning was to fire up the commercial convection oven and ready the work space.  Oven mitts, cooling racks, powdered sugar, cinnamon sugar, glaze, white icing, chocolate icing, white filling, crème filling, raspberry filling and so on.  The easiest and first to be done were the rings and twists.  They were either dipped in cinnamon sugar while hot or glazed or iced when cool.  The filled doughnut shells were cooled, then filled and then glazed or iced.  Each day had its list of how many of each type were to be made.  Usually the store opened before all the doughnuts were finished, so waiting on customers was added to the list of duties. 

When all was complete and the doughnuts were arranged on their trays in the glass case, the clean up began.  The unused glaze, icings, fillings and the sugars had to be put back in their respective buckets and lugged back into the walk in cooler.  The donut filler machine had to be dismantled and cleaned.  The bowls and utensils had to be washed and stored.  The counters had to be washed, the sink cleaned and the floor mopped.  At this point it would be between 8 and 9am depending on the quantity of doughnuts made. 

When the Mennonite woman we had hired moved away, my dad took over the doughnut shift and loved every minute of the process.  First, he was a morning person.  4:15am arrival?  No problem.  Secondly, he was very methodical and liked being able to determine his own routine and way of doing things.  He was also a people person who enjoyed interacting with the customers and even forming friendships with the regulars. 

Unfortunately, even the best employee for the job has days of sickness or vacation.  And I was the fill-in.  My dad did have some sick days, colds and what not.  Then he had hammer toe surgery which meant about six weeks of doughnut duty  Ugh!  I am not a morning person.  I do not want to even begin to think about getting up at an hour that to me is still the middle of the night.  But duty called.  Working backward from 5am when the store opened, I figured out the shortest possible time to have the fewest acceptable number of doughnuts in the case when the store opened and discovered that if I arrived at 4:45am and didn’t dilly-dally, I could have all the rings and twists in the case and be within minutes of having one of the filled varieties available, usually something that involved chocolate.  Working backward from that, I subtracted the ten minute drive and the time it took me to get dressed, brush my hair and teeth and put a light layer of mascara on my too light eyelashes.  I found that if I laid my clothes out the night before, I could set my alarm for 4:25am and make everything work.  The big problem?  I hated pretty much the whole ordeal.  Handing doughnuts to the customers was nice, but I was otherwise on auto-pilot, wishing I was back in bed. 

We sold the store in 2005, so specter of doughnut duty is no longer part of my life.  However, to this day, while most people have pleasant, sugary thoughts about doughnuts, mine are not.  I can enjoy eating one, and have even made some for Fastnacht’s Day, but when I am not partaking, the thought of doughnuts is one of misery.  I have found over the years since that the thought of those early morning times is enough of a hard reality to break whatever mental cycle I am in.  Don’t want people to see me cry at a wedding?  I just say “Doughnuts, doughnuts, doughnuts” in my head over and over and can enjoy the ceremony dry-eyed.  Upset at something someone said to me?  The same—“Doughnuts, doughnuts, doughnuts”.  A sad scene in a movie?  More of the same.  Too much on my plate and/or dropping the ball?  A doughnut memory is all it takes to get me back on track.  Something scary in the news?  Doughnut memories keep my thoughts from running amok.  Sound cynical?  Perhaps.  But for this HSP (highly sensitive person), it works.

Making the ordinary extraordinary

It is easy for our lives to devolve into a refrain of the ordinary and humdrum.  The same chores, the same work, the same people over and over dulls our thinking until all that remains is plodding one foot in front of the other, a taking of things for granted and perhaps even self-pity.  What can make the ordinary extraordinary?

SURPRISE

A birthday which no one has seemed to remember explodes with excitement when those gathered for a surprise party shout “Happy Birthday!”.  An unexpected visit or phone call or note in the mail lifts our spirit and helps us see the world with new appreciation.

KNOWLEDGE

The ocean in its vastness appears to be only endless water and wave until we learn about its creatures, its coral reefs, its deeply hidden treasures.  A skyscraper in the city will fade into the background if we pass it every day to work, but reading a book or seeing a documentary about the designing and engineering of that same building can give us new eyes and that same building then causes amazement.

KINDNESS/COMPASSION

A kindness is shown to us when days are dark and suddenly the world is full of colors again.  We show compassion to another and the wonder of living is restored.  Perhaps it is realizing that there are others with us on the hard road of life.  Perhaps it is the looking outside of ourselves that brings the transformation. 

CHILDLIKENESS

A sense of wonder is usually lost as we mature and age, as responsibilities overwhelm.  Sitting with a child, seeing and hearing as they see and hear can strip away the consuming weight we have allowed to burden us, and allow again the appreciation of the beauty around us.

THANKFULNESS

As Thanksgiving Day draws near this month of November, a deliberate meditating on those things for which we are thankful will lift our minds and hearts from the ordinary to give thanks to God for all that he has given us, all that he has done for us and all that he is day by day, year by year, decade by decade.  And those things are truly extraordinary.

Joy (a haiku)

It Seems Like Just Yesterday...

When one hears the phrase “It seems like just yesterday that I…”, what completes the sentence brings one directly up against the realization that each life is hastening on to its appointed end and for most that plays out in the perception of days running into each other, going by faster and faster with no hope of any slowing.  For me that would have sounded something like this: 

It seems like just yesterday I was playing in the desert with my sister and brother chasing horned toads and raking magnets through the sand to collect iron filings.

It seems like just yesterday I was graduating from high school—followed by It seems like just yesterday I was graduating from college.

It seems like just yesterday I got engaged for the second time (the first was a huge mistake.)

It seems like just yesterday I was touring the Thousand Islands on my honeymoon.

It seems like just yesterday we bought our first car, Plymouth Gold Duster.  (Loved that car.)

It seems like just yesterday I was 7 months pregnant with our second child and moving into our first house with the help of my parents.

It seems like just yesterday we bought a 1952 Packard.  (Loved that car too.)

It seems like just yesterday our daughter was having her first open heart surgery—or her second.  (Both successful.)

It seems like just yesterday our oldest daughter married and moved to Florida—or our oldest son married and moved to Iowa—or our youngest son married and moved to Minnesota.

It seems like just yesterday we started Knerr Heating, A/C and Refrigeration.  (And now it’s almost the end.)

It seems like just yesterday that we moved my parents from California to Pennsylvania to live with us.

It seems like just yesterday my mother passed away from a hemorrhagic stroke after suffering from Alzheimers.

It seems like just yesterday we were building our house in Kennedy’s Valley while living in the basement.

It seems like just yesterday I heard my first screech owl in the middle of the night and thought someone was being murdered out in the woods.  (Not true, just sounded like it.)

It seems like just yesterday we had a very noisy bear raid our bird feeders after a dry summer and fall.  (Also in the middle of the night.)

It seems like just yesterday my Dad was diagnosed with Lewy Body dementia.

It seems like just yesterday my dad passed away from the effects of the dementia, 65 years to the day after he was discharged from a military hospital and given 6 months to live.

It seems like just yesterday Carrie and I did a road trip to South Carolina or Florida or Canada.

It seems like just yesterday I was canning tomatoes and tomato sauce in my new pressure canner—oh wait, that was just the day before yesterday.

For most of my adult life the phrases “It seems like just yesterday..” or “How time flies” were part and parcel of my existence.  Living in the moment seemed an impossibility.  Four children, a house, animals, a business (or 2 or 3) conspired to keep life very busy and very full. Though never one to keep a written to-do list or journal or date book, I carried a mental list of current and future to-do’s in my head which propelled me forward through time faster and faster and faster. 

Caring for a parent with Lewy Body dementia as the primary caregiver changed all that.  If I had still had children at home or a job outside the home the effects might have been muted.  And my experience may be an anomaly.  I have no one else’s experience with which to compare mine.  The day to day and moment to moment care of my dad especially during the latter stages became, without thought or intent, an exercise in “being in the moment”.  Unlike Alzheimers, in Lewy Body dementia there is little of the past.  For my dad, hints of past memories mingled with fiction read or seen on TV.  Hallucinations of tiny little men marching through the glow of the night light or fixation on the enemy’s plot to kidnap his “girlfriend” from the building where he went to day care once a week or the paranoia that brought feelings of everyone hating him became much of his reality.  When engaged in physical activity such as making his bed, or sweeping the deck, the hallucinations and paranoia would recede for a while, but were never far away.  The future was an uncertain timeline without hope for a cure or a return to normalcy.  The end stage of Lewy Body can come suddenly and end quickly as was the case for him.  And without the past or the future, there was only the present.  A present vigilance against harm.  A present vigilance to meet physical needs.  A present vigilance to provide emotional support however futile it may have seemed at the time.  A present vigilance to be a loving family of which he was a part, even when there was little recognition by him of that fact. 

In living those days, weeks and months moment by moment, the inexorable hurriedness of time fell away.  A new habit was formed that remains.  Each day is a new day of 24 hours, neither longer nor shorter, in thought as well as reality.  Yes, there are memories to tie me to the past and yes, there are thoughts of what is ahead, of appointments to keep, of phone calls to be made, of birthdays and weddings, of family and friends aging, of seasons to prepare for and enjoy, but through it all is the measured beat of the clock ticking moment by measured moment, not racing, not hurrying, just being.  And that is a wonderful gift.

The Unusual and the Unique

Trinity Christian Church is one of a myriad of churches in the small town of New Bloomfield, Perry County, PA.  The Lutheran church is right next door. The United Methodist church is two blocks over.  The River of Life Church is just beyond that.  The Mormons, Seventh Day Adventists and the Catholic Church sit to west each a bit further than the last.  A Baptist church is just out of town to the east.  Trinity Christian began as a German Reformed Church in the middle 1845’s becoming United Church of Christ in 1952.  In 2016, being a very conservative congregation, they pulled out of the UCC largely over the issues gay marriage and abortion.  From then until mid 2017 an interim pastor of the orthodox Presbyterian persuasion filled the pulpit

In July 2017, the congregation voted to call Ed Boyle as their pastor.  His path to the ministry was atypical to say the least.  He was born in the coal regions of Pennsylvania to a staunch Irish-Catholic family.  During his early childhood, his father came to faith in Christ alone as his Savior and withdrawing his family from the Catholic Church began attending a local evangelical church.  Ed also professed faith in Christ during his growing up years.  In his 20’s, he joined the Army and began to progress up through the ranks.  Ed retired from the military as a lieutenant-colonel after 25 years of service.  But a non-working retirement was not in his plans.  He felt that God was calling him to the ministry and he entered Covenant Seminary in Illinois for 3 years of pastoral studies.  Trinity Christian is his first church.  He brings not only a testimony of saving faith and the years of study to his first pastorate, but also knowledge and maturity gained through living many years as a member rather than pastor of a local congregation.

But though Ed is quite unusual among pastors, I find his wife Dawn to be truly unique among pastor’s wives.  She began life and grew up in a small town in Tennessee, but headed to University of Alabama for her college years and ROTC training (she didn’t like the orange and white school colors of University of Tennessee).  A avid football fan, Bear Bryant as head coach of the Crimson Tide was also a huge draw.  After graduation, she enlisted in the Army and met Ed whom she outranked at the time, she being all of 5’ 1” and he being over 6’ tall.  Dawn left the Army when they got married to be a full time wife and eventually the home schooling mother of one daughter and three sons. 

As a pastor’s wife, appearances would be that she is fairly typical.  She is very grounded in the Word, spends much time on her knees in prayer, is generous with her attention and affection for those in the congregation.  She dresses modestly and appropriately for services in a dress or skirt.  Her duties included some secretarial work, visitation with her husband on numerous occasions, help in planning for activities.  So what makes her so unique?  Well, the outfit she wears to church Sunday morning may have an Alabama Crimson Tide logo under her sweater or vest during football season, hidden, but there nonetheless.  Her preferred not-at-church attire is jeans and a t-shirt or sweatshirt.  She is quite outspoken, but quick to apologize if she fears she has offended.  And I think one would look long and hard to find another pastor’s wife with a military career spent being the pilot of a Huey transport helicopter.

A Keepsake for the Decades

WENTWORTH--KNERR WEDDING

After the rehearsal at the church this morning, a picnic at the groom's parents' house in Middletown, Pennsylvania and a photo session for the entire bridal party late this afternoon, the ceremony uniting Candace Lee Wentworth and Barry Lee Knerr in holy matrimony was held at the Grace Baptist Church, Carlisle, Pennsylvania at 7 pm on this day, August 30, 1974.  The bride wore a white, floor length organza gown with a sheer overlay embroidered with scattered flowers.  A wide lace collar finished the high neckline and a deep lace ruffle encircled the bottom of the dress.  The veil was cathedral length and double tier, made of tulle trimmed in wide lace.  The bridesmaids wore white floor length gowns paneled with flower sprigged eyelet.  Each carried a white basket filled with colored carnations, blue for the maid of honor and pink for the bridesmaids.  The groom and groomsmen were dressed in brown tuxedos and ruffled shirts with brown bow ties and white carnation boutonnieres.  The bride's bouquet was red roses surrounding white and pink carnations bordered with more white carnations.  The groom wore a white rose boutonniere.  Members of the wedding party included the bride's sister as maid of honor and the groom's brother as best man.

Two organ solos and several hymns sung by the church choir comprised the prelude, after which the presiding minister gave a short sermon to the gathered guests on the true meaning of love both horizontally and vertically.  The bridal party then processed into the sanctuary to the melody from the hymn "O Perfect Love". The words to the hymn were read after the wedding party had entered. The bride was escorted by her father. The ceremony was traditional with the couple reciting individually written vows.  Rings were exchanged and the couple pronounced man and wife.

Following the ceremony, a reception was held in the church social hall with food bought at the Army War College commissary by the bride's parents, supplemented with side dishes contributed by church members.  The guest sat in chairs arranged in a circular fashion while the wedding party sat at a head table.  A two tiered, square white cake trimmed in blue icing flowers was topped with a silver cross with 2 interlocking rings.  A smaller bouquet was used for the bouquet toss as the bride wished to keep her bridal bouquet as a keepsake.

The couple took a short honeymoon to Thousand Islands in New York State before returning to reside in Carlisle, Pennsylvania.

Note:  The bride still has her wedding bouquet as well as every rose that her husband has given her throughout their 44 years of marriage.  The flowers reside in a tall glass cylinder in her bedroom.

Babies

Babies are inscrutable little beings.  As they gaze up into your eyes, there is little hint of what is truly going on inside their small, yet oh so rapidly growing brains.  While not yet capable of writing dissertations or calculating intricate equations, there is tremendous learning and thinking taking place.

The sensory explosion experienced by a baby at the moment of birth is breathtaking.   In the womb surrounded by liquid that maintains its temperature and its density, feeling little of the effects of gravity, hearing only filtered sounds, seeing only filtered light, life is quite predictable.  But all of that changes at the moment of birth.  A newborn's world is rocked by contractions, their idyllic existence ends and life as a separate, unique individual begins.  What must the first sensations of air breathed into lungs, of skin touching skin, of warm milk touching taste buds, of the noises assaulting ear drums, what must those be like?  With synapses firing, the brain must be overwhelmed, processing, cataloguing, learning.  And though we each experienced those things, we are not able to remember them, nor is our newborn son of Adam or daughter of Eve able to tell us. 

I praise you, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made. Wonderful are your works; my soul knows it very well.  Psalm 139:14

Memories

My brother, Bill, has a mind (and memory) like a steel trap.  Me:  Do you remember Mother and Daddy taking us to XYZ?  Bill:  Yeah, I was 9 years, 6 months and 3 days old.  We left home at 2:33 pm and took Valencia to I St. to Main St., waited 15 minutes, 22 seconds at the railroad crossing for the eastbound train with 146 cars plus caboose to pass, went over the tracks and turned right onto Whatchamacallit Road, went past the brown house where to elderly man always sat on his front porch with his bulldog, etc., etc.  Obviously a slight exaggeration, but I am continually amazed at the detail he remembers.  His memory is a panorama with the ability to zoom in on specific moments.  Amazing!

Now my memory is the complete opposite.  In most cases the following scenario plays out.  Bill:  Remember when the Whosits came for a visit and Mother made such-and-such and we had fun playing (insert name of game here)?  Me:  No. Well, maybe. Vaguely.  Perhaps?

However, there are specific memories which are catalogued in my brain in much more detail.  Perhaps I have a special location in my brain’s memory center in which a few above average cells reside, taking naps until called upon to provide their data, their limited number decreasing the accessible stock of childhood memories to several handfuls.  Whereas Bill’s memory is a panorama, mine more closely resembles a mosaic, bits and pieces which combine to give a historical overview, but only hold detail within each small piece.

The first house I remember would be the one in which I spent my pre-school years in Lynwood, California, for all intents and purposes a “suburb” of Los Angeles.  The house was one story, small and square and I remember it being quite dark inside, probably with drawn drapes to keep out the California sun and heat. There was a small, but nice side yard and the requisite cat and dog--though why my cat-disliking parents ever bought a Siamese cat (which I loved), I’ll never figure out.  And for many, many years, I thought we had a Collie, only to discover as an adult from old family pictures that it was a Cocker Spaniel.  Evidently, my pre-school self thought the dog was much larger than the reality.  My most vivid memory is of a gigantic yellow and black spider (scary) on an even more gigantic web (fascinating) on the fence in the yard.  My second most vivid memory is of my friend and I trying out her stilts in the living room (forbidden) and one of them falling and breaking a lamp (terrifying to a 5 year old).

Sometime around age 5 or 6, we moved to Long Beach to a nice, one story, larger square house, with a detached garage covered in Bougainvillea .  This one had a much bigger yard with flower beds around the edges and a lemon tree.  Also, my friend across the street had a pomegranate tree in her backyard that we would climb and eat pomegranates to our heart’s content.  The house was in the flight path of LAX and the sound of jets flying low over our house as they came in for a landing was heard often and very loudly.  I’ve wondered if that was the inspiration for my dad’s hobby of flying model airplanes.  I remember walking to church, school, and piano lessons.  I remember my out-of-state grandparents taking me, my sister (who was born while we lived in Lynwood) and my mother who was very much in labor to the hospital in our car, a Mercury with push buttons instead of a gear shift.  It was a jerky ride, but we made it safely there and back home again.  My dad brought my mother and new baby brother home several days later, much more smoothly, I’m sure.  I remember Mother painting the kitchen green and that she hated it.  No particularly vivid memories there—nothing scary enough I imagine.

Truth be told, what I remember is miniscule compared to what I’ve forgotten.  I don’t remember any school teachers before the 4^th grade.  I vaguely remember my Kindergarten classroom, but no others until 5^th grade.  I remember having a crush on a boy named Teddy in the 4^th grade, have no idea who my friends were or their names, (well, except the one with the pomegranate tree and I don’t remember her name) before 7th grade.  Sounds like a definite deficiency.  A psychiatrist would probably have a field day figuring out what I was suppressing.  And yet, because I’ve always preferred to focus on the present and future, the past is just history with enough memories to give a back story and enough framework into which my brother’s more vivid memories can fit and fill in some gaps and enough recollection of the truly important people, especially family, to make me feel very loved and cared for in my growing up years.

Blue

Synesthesia is a condition in which input from one sense triggers an automatic response from another sense.  Very commonly it manifests as music being sensed as colors as well as sounds.  To me that sounds totally amazing, though I’m sure there are potential downsides.  I am not a synesthete, but colors can bring songs or types of songs to mind.

Red is fairly obvious and definitely pedestrian--Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer, the McDonald’s theme song and many offerings of the military type.

Yellow would bring to mind The Flight of the Bumblebee, songs from The Wizard of Oz and The Yellow Rose of Texas.  .

Green evokes thoughts of Enya and Debussy and other musical impressionists. 

With thoughts of purple come royal marches and majestic hymns.                            .

Blue brings the most specific of memorable songs, two to be exact.  The first is Love is Blue which I first learned in French class, known to us as L’amore est bleu, a gentler, kinder, more hopeful song than the “translation” into English would prove to be.  I still remember most of the words and the memory of them always takes me back to classes with one of my favorite high school teachers who brought a foreign language into our lives with caring and creativity and joie de vivre.

The second is Blue Moon, my father’s love song to my mother.  He, a young Marine, a native Californian, sent back to a hospital in Long Beach with cancer while his comrades-in-arms sailed on to Indochina just before the Korean conflict began.  She, a school teacher from Michigan by way of Washington State and a volunteer at that same hospital in her off hours.  A romance worthy of pen or screen which became a real life union, a marriage lasting 55 years.  And woven through it all were mentions of Blue Moon.  When my dad died in 2015, we found among his things an inexpensive frame holding a very old piece of paper with the faded, typed words of Blue Moon. 

Blue moon
You saw me standing alone
Without a dream in my heart
Without a love of my own.

Blue moon
You knew just what I was there for
You heard me saying a prayer for
Someone I really could care for

And care for her he did, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health and as she also cared for him.

Perspective

History has never been my subject.  Yes, I learned all the important dates and the kings and queens of England in their proper order, but only for the test after which all was promptly forgotten.  I did enjoy the aspects that dealt with individuals and their cultures and their reasonings, and also perhaps, the grand overview, the broad sweep, but the drudgery of this fact and that fact, and oh, don’t forget this fact, bored me to tears.  What I really wanted was a chance to look at all sides of events and issues.  I remember checking a historical fiction book out of my high school library which dealt with the American Revolution from the British point of view. Thoroughly enjoyable, and as I learned about the events of that time from a different perspective, I was motivated to learn and retain more about what had happened.

As human beings, shaped by the fall into sin of Adam, we are fallible.  We are limited in our perceptions.  Our perspective can be very narrow.  However, there are the other sides, other perspectives, which do not change the truth, but give insight into the thoughts, emotions and reactions of other people ranging from the differences of male and female thought processes, of the rural/city divide, the range of politics from liberal to conservative, the vast differences between the nations and cultures of the world.  It can be outside our comfort zone to try to step into another’s shoes in any of these situations and we can never fully understand all the factors that may have shaped another’s point of view, but it can be invaluable to gain even a small insight into them.

The overarching comfort is that God’s perspective is infallible, omniscient, eternal.  And because he is omniscient and omnipotent, we can rest fully on him for wisdom and strength.

The end of one of my eras

When today’s younger generations think of the 1960’s, the youth of their parents or grandparents, the images of “sex, drugs and rock’n’ roll” are pretty pervasive.  For some, those were the reality, but for a large portion of the young people growing up during that era, their lives were fairly prosaic.  Yes, the times they were a changin’, but the greater impact had not been felt.

I graduated from Apple Valley High School in Southern California in 1970.  But while San Francisco (and surrounding areas) was a hotbed of hippies coming of age, our small corner of the high desert was quite behind the times.  Drugs were mostly consumed at rich kids parties, the ones left unsupervised for weekends at a time.  Rock music was played on the school buses, but bands often still wore suit coats and ties.  Girls still wore skirts and dresses to school, though hemlines were shorter, to be sure.  Jeans were still working gear and not fashion statements.  Rioting was occurring elsewhere, but respect for teachers and authority still pervaded our school atmosphere.

Our high school was new my tenth grade year.  It had been built as a grouping of separate buildings around an open quadrangle.  The overhangs were deep to accommodate outdoor lockers – not much rain in the desert.  Ninth grade was included with seventh and eighth grades at the local junior high and the twelfth graders chose to stay at with their classmates at the previous high school for their senior year, so for that first year, there were only tenth and eleventh grades.  Our class was just over 200 students, not too large, not too small.  We had the usual assortment of teachers, ranging from the history teacher who had pretty much already checked out to the English teacher who expected and got great things from his students.  The students were also predictably varied--the jocks, the nerds, the in crowd, the outsiders, the average ones.  I played the bassoon in concert, marching and jazz bands (great fun), took part in speech tournaments (results meh), played on the tennis team (I was terrible), got good grades, had friends of all sorts, and generally made it through unscathed.

But all good things must come to an end.  Graduation was held on the football field with a podium facing rows of chairs and the chairs facing the bleachers where family and friends would sit on  a very sunny June afternoon.  Speeches were made, diplomas were handed out and congratulations given.  Our days at public school were over.

However, that wasn’t quite the end.  The highlight for most of us came that evening when we boarded big yellow school buses with our dates, or our friends, and headed 2 hours over the Cajon Pass on Route 66 to Disneyland.  After closing, the whole park became a playground for the graduating seniors from several schools for the entire night, chaperoned of course – and with a dress code.  The Matterhorn, the Pirates of the Caribbean, the Haunted House, all the rides were open without the usual long lines.  Different artists and bands were playing the various venues, Jackie DeShannon being the only one I can remember.  Restaurants were open; we ate at the one inside the Pirates of the Caribbean ride.  The hundreds of lights illuminated the park throughout the night and  made it magical.  Good memories.

Heading east the next morning as the sky was brightening, we were indeed leaving our years of public education behind and looking ahead to the dawn of our future.

The Spectacular and the Memorable

One of the most spectacular (if not the most spectacular) events in time and space had to have been when God created light.  Imagine total darkness.  TOTAL darkness.  No sun, no moon, no stars, no firelight, no electric lights.   ^“And God said, ‘Let there be light’, and there was light.” (Gen 1:3)  How amazing that moment must have been.  We can’t even begin to imagine even one moment in darkness as black as that must have been.  One might say that perhaps someone who is blind would know that type of darkness, yet they have felt the warmth of the sun on their skin and heard descriptions of light in its many forms.  Even a windowless room without artificial light would still not equal the darkness that was before God created light.

There is another darkness upon which a great light has dawned—the darkness of sin. “The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light; those who dwelt in a land of deep darkness, on them has light shone.”  (Isaiah 9:2)  Though not as outwardly spectacular, the coming of the light of the gospel into the heart of a sinner more than equals the wondrous creation of physical light.  So many Bible phrases emphasize the darkness, the lostness which has characterized men and women since the fall of Adam—“The heart is deceitful above all things” (Jer 17:9), “None is righteous, no, not one” (Rom 3:10), “For out of the heart come evil thoughts” (Matt 15:19) and many others.  But God sent Jesus, the Light of the world to cast out sin and darkness and give faith, repentance and the glorious light of the gospel, to change the hearts of sinners.  How spectacular. How personal.

Now to the memorable.  There have been two memorable instances in which physical, created light was captured in a special moment for me.  The first was driving over the mountain from our house outside of Landisburg to Carlisle (PA).  The day was sunny and beautiful.  As I crested the mountain, the Cumberland Valley was socked in with clouds and I was above them.  It felt as though my car had become a small plane and I was soaring in sun and blue sky while the earth remained below shrouded by clouds.  As I descended the mountain and entered the cloud bank, I could only repeat over and over—“Oh, wow!”  What an experience.

The second memorable “light” moment occurred on an early summer evening.  Usually evenings are spent at home, but on that occasion, I had been out shopping.  As I left the store and turned to go to my car, the view at the end of the strip mall was nothing short of amazing.  The sun had just set, leaving the sky overhead a deep navy blue while across the horizon was a strip of lighter blue which gradually faded into the dark sky above.  Silhouetted against that was on large tree with a crescent moon just to the left and the evening star above its tip.  Again, I found myself saying, “Oh, wow!” and marveling that the others hurrying around me did not even seem to notice.

One generation shall commend your works to another,
    and shall declare your mighty acts.
 On the glorious splendor of your majesty,
    and on your wondrous works, I will meditate.
They shall speak of the might of your awesome deeds,
    and I will declare your greatness.

 They shall pour forth the fame of your abundant goodness
    and shall sing aloud of your righteousness.

Psalm 145: 3-7  ESV

Desert Impressions

My first impression of the high desert?  Somewhat vague. I'd just turned 9 and we were moving from Long Beach, CA to Hesperia about 100 miles inland via Cajon Pass between the San Gabriel Mountains and the San Bernardino Mountains on Route 66.  So many changes--new house, new school, new surroundings, probably more than my 9 year old brain could really comprehend at the time.  I remember brown instead of green, cold instead of warm.  Long Beach at sea level was warm and green all year around while Hesperia at 3000+ feet altitude was brown and very cold that December.

When we, my mother, younger sister, younger brother and I, arrived there was no heat in the house and the furnace would not start.  My dad was detained in Long Beach by work, so it was up to us.  Providentially there was a working fireplace and wood to burn, whether left there intentionally or scavenged from surrounding scrub and downed Joshua trees is a fact lost in the shrouded past.  We all slept in the living room that night.  The following day all complications were solved by the adult while we children explored.  Our new lives had begun.

Looking back 5 and 1/2 decades, what impressions remain?  Light from a brilliant sun on cloudless days making deep shadows where mountains and houses stood.  Endless vistas.  Playing in the desert sand.  Joshua trees, cactus, tumbleweeds.  Jack rabbits, roadrunners, horned toads...